


The Final Mystery

by lonelywalker



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M, Oscar Wilde - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1895. Oscar Wilde is on trial. Holmes is perturbed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Mystery

_The final mystery is oneself.  
\- Oscar Wilde_

On the eve of the arrest of one Oscar Wilde on charges of crimes against nature, my dear friend and intimate companion, Sherlock Holmes, bounded up the stairs into our rooms and through the open door, declaring loudly that "Watson, we shall have to evacuate this city as quickly as possible".

Being rather more than accustomed to outbursts of this nature, I barely raised my eyes above the headlines of that day's newspaper. Having determined that Holmes, on this occasion at least, was neither naked nor bleeding nor on fire, my attention was quickly caught once again by the confounding results of the previous day's races.

"Some criminal conspiracy is afoot," I remarked, while the shadows playing across my newspaper, combined with an array of thumping footsteps, told me that Holmes was hardly content to stand around waiting for what he determined to be a suitable reaction. "Not one of the favourites won at Cheltenham yesterday. Or, if I recall correctly, the previous week."

"Easily explained," Holmes said, grappling with our umbrella stand as if in a life-or-death struggle. "The favourites are, as you know, determined upon previous race results. Results, my dear Watson, determined in turn by the conditions of the course. While we have had unseasonably good weather lately, the recent return to what we may term typically British weather has... Where on earth is my map of the continent?"

One might wonder why Holmes would be looking for such thing in, around, or underneath an umbrella stand. However, in our apartments such an exercise was eminently logical. "Lady Harrington fainted on it last week," I pointed out, frowning at the results before me. "So the relatively soft ground hampered the horses."

"I would imagine so," Holmes said, brandishing his violin so recklessly that it missed the top of my head by nary an inch. "Even the most incompetent of criminal conspirators knows not to fix _every_ race. Aha!"

He swept everything from our coffee table, including something Irene Adler had claimed was priceless the last time she had swept through. I caught it, but alas not the mug of coffee which was left for Gladstone to lap up from the already much-stained carpet. "Now, Watson, to plan our escape. I hear Paris is far more liberally minded, much as the people are rude and unenlightened. Also, your French is painful to the ear, so you may have to remain indoors constantly."

"As I do at the moment, with the rain we've been having." Finally unable to resist, I folded away my paper and leaned forward, relocating Irene's trinket just as poor Gladstone collapsed in a heap beside me. "Is Lestrade threatening to arrest you again?"

Holmes waved away my suspicions with some enthusiasm. "If it were Lestrade I would hardly be concerned. One could hide from him by simply donning a new hat. No. This evening I received word that there are plans to arrest a playwright and aesthete by the name of Oscar Wilde, on the charge of gross indecency."

"I hardly see how that would-"

"Gross indecency, Watson! A charge against which no man, woman, or child on the face of this earth can adequately defend! Nor should they."

"Holmes, I rather think you're taking this a little-"

"Why, if we were all impeccably _decent_. Well. I shudder to think, Watson, and so should you!"

Resisting my impulse to interrupt once again, I took a breath, and ensured that Holmes had calmed slightly from his initial outburst before replying. "You know very well what I think of such matters, Holmes, but Wilde's arrest is hardly evidence for a London-wide evacuation. The man's been tempting fate for weeks. He should never have brought a libel case against the Marquess in the first place."

"That case was perfectly sound."

"Oh, Holmes, really. You of all people know precisely what Wilde did. I'm sure you would have been a wonderful witness for the defence!"

Holmes, ignoring my pleas, was still poring over the map, perhaps looking for a locale as attractive as Baker Street to set up a new francophone consulting service. "As I recall, the Marquess accused him of being a, and I quote, 'somdomite'. Oscar Wilde may be many things, Watson, but he is never an incorrectly spelled epithet. I too would rail against such an accusation, if only to insist that the aristocracy maintain better standards of grammar and composition."

"Holmes," I said, with a tone most often used to pacify either Gladstone or Mrs. Hudson, as I placed my hand rather firmly over his on the table, "no one is accusing you of anything."

"That's hardly the point," he muttered, the sound and fury gone from his argument. "When we start hunting down those with intellect, wit, and creativity, society is no longer worth anything to me. It bores me, Watson."

"He should have been more discreet."

"The courts should have more important cases to try than whether or not Oscar Wilde buggers stable boys. Which I'm reasonably sure he does not. That fop of his is notoriously reticent to do anything except write bad sonnets about forbidden love." Holmes' eyes met mine. "Do promise me you'll never resort to such interminable dullness, Watson."

The door, I recalled, was locked. "I promise," I said, and kissed Holmes firmly on the mouth. This action was usually an excellent diagnostic tool, but in this instance even I recoiled. "What _have_ you been drinking?"

"Difficult to say," he responded, his eyes a little brighter than before. "I believe it may have been fermented from melons. Excellent disinfectant, though. I recommend it highly. My tongue has never been cleaner."

I decided, no doubt wisely, to expunge this remark from my memory. "Since we are staying in London, and we _are_ , Holmes, perhaps we can use the inimitable skills of England's only consulting detective, and aid in Wilde's defence."

"The key problem being that the man is guilty."

"A moment ago you were attempting to convince me that the key problem-"

"Is that the law is deeply, morally wrong. Yes. However, morals are not a matter of _evidence_ , Watson. What witnesses could I call? Religious scholarship agrees sodomy is a sin. Medical opinion declares homosexual acts to be unnatural, and evidence of psychological disturbance. Even you are not entirely convinced that it is not the case."

I sank back into my chair, my leg aching. "Holmes, if neither of us is psychologically disturbed in some way, I will eat my hat. But it seems as though such desires are not to be cured, and if they offend no one but God, I am content to face His judgement after death."

"If only the judges of England had the same opinion." Holmes shifted over, and reached to rub his hand over my thigh in response to, I assume, some unconscious evidence of my discomfort. "There's nothing to be done, Watson. If one of the world's finest intellects cannot convince the court, I certainly cannot."

He stood, stretching, and began to remove his clothes, of which there were many. "I do, however, feel like hitting something. And since you disapprove so highly of my bouts, you will have to direct my energies in another direction."

I sat and watched him, reluctant to give him the satisfaction of readily jumping at the bait. "I suppose rousing Gladstone or putting this room into some sort of order would be asking too much?"

"Watson," he said, flinging his shirt so that it neatly landed astride some candlesticks. "I am both surprised and disappointed by your-"

I unbuttoned my fly with a movement that was almost elegant. "Come here."

 _Gross indecency_. In the moments that followed, I was tempted to challenge any man to find this a crime, with the glory that was Holmes's mouth attending to my most primal needs. Far from a sin, far from a psychological disturbance, he seemed to take as much comfort from it as I took physical pleasure, murmuring deep in his throat, his hands warm against my thighs.

I must confess that I often have a better bedside manner with Holmes than I ever do with my patients, and there was no more convincing evidence as I caressed his greying hair, soothing his fury and pain as best I could.

"I accept you, Holmes. As you are. You know that." Had he truly known that, I doubt I would have felt the need to say it, but say it I did as he rested his head by my knee and thoughtfully licked the taste of me from his lips.

He began to examine his fingernails, grubby from god knows what. "You despise my violin playing, object _virulently_ to my medical experimentation, and-"

"You know what I mean."

Once again, as he had every other time, Holmes had successfully broken apart any atmosphere of relative calm and comfort we might have created. He leapt to his feet, trailing those dirty fingers through his hair and looking around absently, perhaps for his missing clothes. "Watson, I have come to a decision."

I have learned, over the years, to be wary of Holmes' decisions. "Oh?" I asked, refastening my fly and pondering the possibility of a bath.

"We shall stay in London," Holmes announced with some enthusiasm, pontificating as though he had an entire room of journalists hanging on his every words, rather than simply myself and an unconscious dog. "And show our support for the cruelly wronged Mr. Wilde by thwarting the London constabulary at every turn, showing them to be dimwitted fools who can easily be out-thought by a single autodidact with no official title." He paused. "And you, Watson, of course."

"Of course," I said, checking my watch. "Holmes-"

"Now, however, I wish you to join me as I undertake practical research into a singular – and related – legal mystery."

"Which would be?"

"A matter of peculiar definition, Watson. As an educated man of medicine, and a frequent consultant on matters of the law, what _would_ you suppose is the pertinent difference between the crimes of sodomy and buggery?"

After a brief moment of thought, I stood up to close the curtains so that we could investigate the matter further.


End file.
